Intricate
by veils
Summary: Garibaldi/Ivanova; She's like an intricate maze he keeps getting lost in.


**Intricate  
><strong>By: veils  
>Babylon 5, <strong>GaribaldiIvanova**; _She's like an intricate maze he keeps getting lost in._

_a/n: Canon isn't really followed here. Perhaps the most jarring thing is Michael visiting Susan after the White Star accident, but it always fit into my own personal canon that he did in fact visit her. (It irritated me that he didn't, and I know he was on Mars but…) So yeah, enjoy._

* * *

><p>… … …<p>

_She is_

_An intricate maze_

_That you keep getting lost in_

_Over and over again_

… … …

The first time he sees her it's like he's been struck by lighting. She's utterly beautiful and breathtakingly perfect; like one of those copies of famous portraits painted centuries ago that Sinclair has hanging about his quarters. Auburn tresses tumble down her back and eyes widen at the sheer magnitude of the station. Michael muses of traversing over, offering the chance of an insiders tour, which may or may not include dinner at his place in the end.

But there is something enigmatic about this woman, who will become lieutenant commander after a ridiculously lavish ceremony held in her honor. He feels if he were to get too close she would burn him; burn him with one touch of her serpentine fingers and set his being aflame with one glance of her smoldering dark eyes.

She is then whisked away by Sinclair, but not before their eyes meet for one fragile moment.

"_Hello Susan Ivanova." _

Her name scorches his tongue.

… … …

They do not speak at much first, for her schedule is filled to the brim and does not allow for anything other than a brief "_how are you?" _or "_stay clear from Londo, he's on the warpath today." _A formal conversation completely work unrelated occurs three months after she's been stationed. It's about the god-awful food being served in the mess hall. Not particularly intimate, but at least it's something. A month later they both get the day off. He casually suggests dinner, she gives him a pointed look, and he covers it up:_ "Just want to get to know you better." _Susan sees through him and Michael knows it. This has probably happened so many times in her life: a rugged guy with a bleak, lackluster future on the horizon sees a striking woman and tries ever so neatly to edge his way into her life.

"_Sure."_ There's something to her tone that suggests she's doing this as a strict formality: the lieutenant commander and the head of security should know each other to a certain degree, to be on the same wave length. Whatever the reason, Michael is grinning ear to ear and even has a _hop _in his step and is completely unfazed when Franklin pulls him aside and asks: "_Are you on stims?" _

… … …

Slowly they become close, but it's a strange kind of closeness no one person can understand. They hold full length conversations with just one glance, gently scold and relate why a good night's sleep is beneficial to a good work day when dark circles are spotted underneath eyes; and sneak coffee in each other's quarters while laughing at others that bemoan not having savored the beverage in a very long time.

_Friends_ is not an apt term to be associated with them. The word reeks of informality, does not fully describe the tie that binds them together. Not one word in the dictionary could wholly illustrate their connection; an old Minbari word could possibly express what they had, but the word was lost to the sands of time.

… … …

Once after sipping too much cheap champagne, the topic of marriage of all things is brought up. Susan states the idea doesn't fancy her at all. The lust for adventure is engrained in her bones and she thinks matrimony would suffocate. Michael isn't opposed to the idea, so long as he finds an extraordinarily model-esque misses. Susan snorts and drinks from her glass, holds the plume too tightly and looks at him across the top of it.

"But it'd sorta be nice, to find a soulmate. To find someone whose hand fits perfectly in yours; that understands what you're thinking by just one look into your eyes."

He smiles gently: "Yeah, it would."

… … …

It all occurs faster than a blink of the eyes. Some Minbari ceremony is held, drinks are served all around, eyes meet over candlelight, and then they're in Michael's quarters with one thing running through their minds. There's much fumbling and laughing at the absurdity of it all; how they both feel teenagers doing it for the first time and trying not to get caught. His lips are already swollen from the kisses that will come soon enough and she's seeing stars when his lips brush against her collarbone.

… … …

Eyes flutter open at the same time. Michael's wake up call drones on and on but is ignored. They both wear matching smiles.

"Hello." He's blushing like mad and his voice breaks, almost as if he's trying to keep the happiness from within from bursting forth. Susan chuckles lightly, tracing invisible stars on Michael's chest and wondering if things can ever be normal between them.

"No. It'll never be the same now." She wonders for a fleeting moment if he's a telepath, but the thought is dashed as he pins her wrists to the bed.

… … …

There are haunting times when he sits alone; itching for some smooth vodka to go down his throat that he believes his only purpose for living is for her. That the real reason he traverses the corridors with gun in hand hunting down rogues is that so she can be safer; doesn't have to fear for her well-being at night when she slips into bed. That maybe he's here to show her love does exist, and that he won't leave like others did.

But Michael's never been good at expressing his feelings. (_If alcohol wasn't involved) _Plus he doesn't know if Susan _does _care for him; doesn't know if she thinks this is more than casual sex and saving the least wobbly table for each other at the mess hall.

There's a voice in the back of his head that whispers this won't last.

… … …

_And then things become dark and bleak and shadowy. There are gaps in his memory that he can't fill or place, even though Susan tries to. _

_And then there's: "I'm resigning my position." _

_Resulting in: "It's a tranq." _

_Followed by: "Shoot to kill." _

_Finalized by: "Something's happened to Susan." _

A sob escapes his throat.

… … …

Michael walks into the medical lab expecting this is the last time he'll see her alive. Marcus is there, (_a wave of jealousy drowns him), _and he knows that should be _him _by her side, if everything hadn't gone to hell. Marcus gives him a pointed look as he advances; winces as Michael takes Susan's hand in his, looks away when he sees that their hands fit perfectly in each other's.

"I wish things would've worked out differently," Michael says simply, leaving the lab before anyone can see the burgeoning tears threatening to fall.

… … …

Her eyes flutter open, and for a moment she considers herself dead. Surprisingly, Susan isn't heartbroken over the idea: you have to get accustomed to and on well terms with death in her particular line of work. But then her eyes focus and _oh _there's Marcus dozing at her side, and Susan gently shakes him to wake up, (_"Marcus, get off me and wake up this moment. I'm the patient, not you!") _and she frowns when there is no response. Then Susan's eyes fall upon the alien device she vaguely remembers hearing Franklin whispering about to Sheridan, and suddenly the room is spinning and her screams echo off the walls.

… … …

They see each other once before she is reassigned.

Susan wants to tell him everything: her secret desires, lingering hopes for the future. She wants to tell him of Russia; of how her bones ache for her homeland. She wants to ask him what took him so long; wants to know why it took living through a death to bring him back to her. A pair of dark brown eyes she'll never see again, followed by the sound of Marcus' velvety English accent flash through her mind then and a wave of pain passes through her. A sob escapes from Susan's lips and she grips Michael's shoulders like she's going to break into millions of pieces as he holds her crumbling body to his.

His gentle eyes scan her face; all he can say is: _"I know."_

… … …

Insurmountable time passes. He's developed an affinity for smoking and taken a liking to jazz music; managed to keep his hands off of alcohol, _barely. _Michael calls Mars his home, but not really: some nights he expects to be awakened by Sheridan on his link, or another person calling in an emergency that needs his expertise. (_That metal cylinder is his true home) _

Not a day goes by where Michael doesn't think of Susan. It's cheesy and tawdry –not at all fitting for a man his age– but the foolish romanticist in him quietly calls her his soulmate. Certain evenings something within aches; aches to see her sleeping form when his eyes flutter open in the morning, aches to look up at the stars with her at his side, attaching a wish to every single one. His stomach turns with the utter and unconditional reality of loving her, and yet his hands are always grasping at empty air beside him on the bed.

… … …

Susan's sitting at her table, not really drinking the cup of coffee that's become cold, but merely musing of the old days. So many faces she's encountered over the years, and now they become blurry with time. (_What hue were Talia's eyes? What did Marcus' voice sound like?) _The sound of someone outside the door uproots her from dreaming, and she slowly stands up; feels the silken material of her azure silk nightgown being blown against her legs by a cool breeze from an open window. The lock on the door is picked with ease, and Susan's heart knows who it is before she does.

Arms that know her encircle her waist; lips that have memorized her more sensitive spots nip at her exposed skin. He doesn't speak, but his breathing is loud, like he's trying keep himself under control; to not get too excited at the thrill of holding her in his arms. Fingers grip the hem of her nightgown, pushing her closer to his body. A sigh escapes her lips.

"_Susan." _

She hushes him with a kiss.

… … …

They begin to do whatever they want. Sleep through wake up calls, spend lavish amounts of credits on meals (_they damn well deserve it after enduring the food on the station),_ display their ardor in public even though the both of them aren't quite accustomed to it. Once or twice they're called to save a planet or two or three. (_The legend of a man with stars in his eyes and holes in his memory and a fierce Russian with the audacity of calling herself God reach far across the cosmos) _ But the people and planets they save have to deserve it: they've had too many deaths in their lives and they will always pick each other before anything else…nowadays. Both of them deserve to be selfish now, after everything considered.

They're not always perfect together. Sometimes there's a longing in their bones for action and a gun in hand, and the fire spills out and ignites heated words. _He_ feels a surge of jealousy pulse through his veins when he catches her crying over the man that gave his life for her._ She_ raises an eyebrow when his eyes rest upon a bottle.

But for the first time, Susan and Michael are truly happy, content with the quiet lives they both never figured to have.

_(Their hands still fit perfectly in each others)_

And it seemed to be a happy exchange.


End file.
